


A Request, Made Properly

by EnglandsGray



Series: Who You Really Are [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, London in the snow, Marriage Proposal, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week, St Bartholomew's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray
Summary: John had chuckled and shook his head even as they were leaving, hours after Sherlock and Molly had confirmed their engagement.  No doubt John would continue to point out how he found the situation ‘unbelievable’.Unbelievable.Simple solution - all that is required is irrefutable evidence.Follows directly on from The Trouble with a Baby.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: Who You Really Are [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884091
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	1. London - Irrefutable evidence.

**Author's Note:**

> Began as a potential fourth chapter to The Trouble With a Baby. When I roughed out the first part, it was as light as that fiction. By the time I sat down to write the rest, the feel had evolved, somewhat, so I decided to post it as a stand-alone.
> 
> Not exactly angsty, but full of feels, I hope.
> 
> Wishing you all a very happy Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020! 
> 
> Unfortunately, no amount of appreciation will make these wonderful characters mine. All credit and all love, as ever, to the creators and the BBC.
> 
> Neither do I own the song referred to within the story - credit to the artist and record label. 
> 
> <3

London

Sherlock felt Molly’s hand slide between his body and his elbow as they walked away from John’s flat. Rosie was sound asleep, having drifted off on Molly’s front in the sitting room while they all chatted and toasted the occasion. The sight had brought a deep sense of contentment and quiet wonder to Sherlock and he allowed himself a moment of blissful happiness sat in the company of his favourite people. 

John remained incredulous. Sherlock was highly amused. John had chuckled and shook his head even as they were leaving, hours after Sherlock and Molly had confirmed their engagement. No doubt John would continue to point out how he found the situation ‘unbelievable’. He considered the notion in his mind:

**_Unbelievable._ **

**_Simple solution - all that is required is irrefutable evidence._ **

"Happy birthday, Sherlock,” Molly looked up to him. She gave his arm a squeeze and he responded by reaching over to wrap her hand in his for a moment, glad of the opportunity to further protect her skin from the bitter January air. Along with her gloves, she had pulled on the cherry-red cashmere beanie hat he had given her for Christmas. He was disproportionately pleased. They walked along the quiet Camberwell terrace, their way lit by the final few Christmas lights determinedly hanging on until the last. There was a weighted stillness in the air, a feint ring around the brilliant silver moon. 

They stood on the tube, even though there were seats around them. Molly tucked herself into his side and he rested his chin lightly against her head. They didn’t speak, listened instead to the soothing, rhythmic melody of the carriage on the tracks, the passing of tunnels and stations. 

Several stops early, Sherlock said: “Let’s go for a walk,” and taking Molly’s hand he stepped from the train with her in his wake.

The dome of St Paul’s Cathedral was resplendent in the crystal clear night air. They walked along Ludgate Hill towards it, as though it were a beacon calling them home. Sherlock considered the unlikelihood of its existence after 1945. He attributed the survival of the building not to deliverance or benevolent fate, but to mere chance, no greater external influence than that. A turning of the wheel, though improbable. He looked at Molly, watched her looking into the windows of restaurants and bars as they passed. Her love for him was improbable and it too had withstood the barrage of time and circumstance. And no small amount of resistance. Surely if miracles did occur, he was looking at one now. He went to kiss the top of her head, inelegant as that was while they were still in motion, but she stopped walking.

Sherlock realised with a stab of alarm that there were tears running down her face. She released his arm and began rooting around in her bag, likely for a tissue. He produced his handkerchief and handed it to her.

“What’s the matter, are you unwell? Molly? Where is the pain?” He tipped her chin up gently with his finger tips and reached to cover the pulse point on her wrist.

She pulled away from his touch, prompting a sickening pang in his abdomen in the heartbeat before she spoke.

“Don’t be daft - of course I’m not ill. It’s the music.”

“Oh.” He looked around. “What music?”

“From that café,” she indicated with her thumb the place they had just passed. 

The windows were steamed up. Small leaded panes above the main ones had been opened; there came from within the sound of forty or fifty chattering diners, the tinkling of cutlery, china and glass. Laughter. And music which was presumably being played at such a pervasive volume as to supersede that of the crowd. 

“Why does ‘Kissing You’ make you cry?” Sherlock wondered aloud.

This had the unexpected effect of making Molly emit a spluttering laugh. 

“What?” his confusion compounded.

“How the hell do you know this song?” Molly was clearly as incredulous as he. “Don’t tell me, it’s a cover of a Handel hit from 1750.”

He felt some relief that she was smiling, although her tears hadn’t abated. 

“Sadly, no. Although it is true that the majority of popular music would be greatly improved if the _‘artists’_ were to apply some simple structural melodic...” he stopped. “You haven’t answered my question. Why are you crying because of this song?”

She sighed, flapped her hand in a gesture he took to indicate that she wished to downplay either her actions or words. He could never be certain. 

“It’s silly. I loved this film when I was a teenager, it was a bit of a moment for me. And then when I met you… oh God, you’ll laugh at me...”

“I won’t.”

She looked at him. 

“I would get it stuck in my head when I’d been around you. Every time. The night you stayed after that awful day with… Moriarty… I cried myself to sleep with it going round and round knowing you were leaving and I might never see you again. And, _oh God_ , when you were arrested…”

She paused, pressed her fingers to her lips. The song enveloped Sherlock in its haunting, newly significant, embrace. Molly took a deep breath.

“When you made me tell you that I loved you, it was there. When you came over and I... and we… talked… and when we fell asleep in the living room, it was in my mind and I cried for you even though you were right there...”

His diaphragm twisted, powerfully. He remembered that. He’d thought she was suffering with the same overwhelm as he, or that she was frightened by her illness, as he had also been. He had simply held her. 

“How I feel about you sounds like this. It sounds like this when I kiss you. It’s perfect,” her voice began to break. “I miss you, even when I’m with you…”

He couldn’t stand it. He wrapped her in his arms, spread his fingers over the back of her head, holding her to him. She shook, but her voice was defiant when she said “It’s not sad. I’m not sad. It’s so much. It’s just… such a long time…” 

When Sherlock looked along the street over the top of Molly’s head, his vision was clouded; he blinked, the cold stinging the wet corners of his eyes. 

_I don’t count._

**_You do count. You’ve always counted…_ **

****

**_The years I spent denying love, she lived with it unrequited._ **

**_An unmovable constant._ **

**_Enduring and thankless._ **

****

**_Grieving._ **

**_Forgiving._ **

Sherlock’s heart was full and it ached; euphoria and devastation. No one but this woman could teach him about love, drag him to understanding and hold his hand against the flame.

“I love you,” Molly breathed against his chest, but to Sherlock she was not close enough, he would never be able to draw her close enough.

“I love you. And I miss you,” he told her.

He closed his eyes, rocked Molly gently as he had with Rosie, soothing himself as well as her. The lilting melody continued, sailing over wordless notes which expressed as much as the few poetic lyrics. Strings soared in the instrumental. He felt the expectation of the final refrain like a dread, worse now that he had the perspective of another, more important, listener. 

_Where are you now? Where are you now?_

**_Here._ **

Did he say it aloud? 

Molly looked up at him and he bent to kiss her, experiencing a deep surge of pure emotion akin to being granted the blessing of her forgiveness, to going home, solving the riddle of his childhood, knowing John was going home to Rosie, knowing Eurus was home. 

**_Home._ **

**_The transcendent power of music._ **

**_Love._ **

****

**_Molly._ **

Their lips parted and he made a decision. He took her hand, released her gently, and guided her in turning on the spot. 

“Sherlock!”

He caught her waist and pulled her to him, laughing at her delighted surprise. They swayed slowly, awkwardly, together. No longer was this woman easy to lead. He span her again and dropped her into a dip for the benefit of the couple on the other side of the road who were pointing and smiling. A flash-bulb illuminated. 

“Sherlock! You idiot.”

“Incredible dancer, you mean. Dazzling romantic.”

He picked her up and turned around with her as the music reached its final bars. She squealed, then wrapped her arms around his neck as he lowered her to her tiptoes on the pavement. 

The song ended. The busy bustle of the street seemed to hesitate before crowding in on their moment.

“It’s snowing,” Molly said. Her breath fogged the air between them, sweet, quickened and vital.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he looked into the depths of her eyes.

White flecks danced around the two of them, landing on the shoulders of Molly’s coat. Sherlock watched her lips press together as a smile crept into them. This was his favourite of the many she gave with that natural generosity which was uniquely her. Beneath this smile, her heart was barely contained. Sherlock watched in wonder, absorbing every detail, feeling that essence as it radiated from her in waves. 

“Come on, you. Having survived humiliation I’d quite like to not catch my death,” she said.

They huddled back into one another and set off again, towards the cathedral. 

“You never answered my question,” Molly’s statement broke the comfortable quiet which had fallen between them as they walked in the snow.

“Oh?”

“How do you know that song?”

“Ah,” he said, caught out. “Can I trust you, Molly?” he eyed her, raised an eyebrow.

“You said you could,” she reminded him. He smiled.

“John insisted that particular reincarnation of the star-crossed lovers was a suitable distraction one evening, some years ago. It was torture - making sure he couldn’t tell how enjoyable I found it, or how that fact surprised me…”

Molly laughed.

“To my eternal shame, the Luhrmann back-catalogue is now a guilty pleasure.” 

“ _Now_ you tell me,” Molly scoffed. “To think – all those film nights where we didn’t need to pretend to only like the good stuff...”

“How very dare you? They are the good stuff,” Sherlock bristled, his hand over his heart, before giving her a sly smile. Molly giggled.

“I couldn’t watch one with you,” he admitted. “I cry like a baby at the end of the Moulin Rouge.”

“Perish the thought, I might work out you’re human, after all.”

“Precisely. Can’t have that.”

“Well, I know now. So a night in with Ewan and Naomi is happening.” 

He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, loving - _loving_ – that smile. 

Twenty minutes later, they crossed the road to walk along the west side of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. As they passed below the Latin inscription at the roofline of the great stone building they both looked up. Molly squeezed Sherlock’s hand. 

He had considered it, but dismissed the idea quickly. This spot was already vitally important in their shared history. To overwrite that would be wrong. Holding the past, lightly, mattered, even when it seared. Embracing it was part of the great tapestry of a life. 

They rounded the corner onto West Smithfield. Ahead, warm light spilled onto the pavement, illuminating falling flakes of snow. Organ-music, choral voices, could be heard.

**_St Bartholomew The Less_ **

**_Eucharist service._ **

Sherlock was surprised when Molly stopped outside the church entranceway. He drew a blank upon scanning his memory.

“You don’t believe in God, you are mistrustful of religion and your attitude to death is pragmatic.” He was ever wary of giving voice to the observations he made of Molly. He felt a prickle of guilt as she looked at him. But he was curious too – endlessly so, enough to sometimes overcome his reason, when it came to her.

“Religion has very little to do with faith, Sherlock,” she remarked. “Or remembrance.” Molly unthreaded her arm from his. “I’m going to light a candle… do you want to..?” she gestured to the door of the church.

“No,” Sherlock took a slight step backwards. “Thank you. You go ahead. I’ll spend a moment the quadrant garden.”

Molly reached for her bag. “Take my fob,” she said.

“I haven’t needed to steal your access pass for some time, Molly.”

She smiled, shook her head slightly. “One – I knew it was you. Two… oh, never mind,” she exhaled, reached up to kiss him on the cheek, the warmth of it lingering. “See you in a moment.” 

Sherlock stood by the fountain. The water was dimly lit from beneath, so it shimmered in pale blue light, gentle rippling reflections cast upon the carved stone. He was alone in the quiet space, although surrounded by the many, many lives within the institution at the heart of which he now found himself. Some of those lives were this night reaching their end, their endurance complete. Some were at the very moment of beginning, bright little sparks illuminating the night, all of potential. 

He withdrew from his coat pocket the small, black velvet box his father had given him some time ago. A grounding sense of realisation spread through him as he opened the box and took out the ring inside before closing it once more and placing it back in his pocket. 

**_My own keepsake from your collection may not be as grand,_ **

**_but it is a treasure to me, nonetheless._ **

**_A carrier, a vessel, filled with love to be witnessed and shared._ **

**_You and my mother were ever thus._ **

**_Thank you for seeing it in me._ **

****

**_You knew she did, too._ **

****

Poetry was not sentiment. So in the same way he was not ashamed to fill his home with meaningful objects, or to commit passages from literature to memory, or kiss on the forehead or hold his dearest friends and family, Sherlock felt no shame in closing his eyes as he sent his prayer to his father and then to bring the wedding band to his lips for a brief moment. 

The metal was pale gold. Given its age, Sherlock would hazard a guess at the alloy metal being silver. The fact it was also Welsh in origin leant weight to his theory. Around its full circumference was skilfully hand-engraved a motif of entwined rosemary and violet flowers. 

**_Rosamund Mary._ **

**_Rosemary._ ** ****

Sherlock’s heart constricted and swelled in its familiar way at the thought of his dear friend. He was glad to think of her, pleased to spend a moment in the company of her memory. All three members of the Watson family belonged in the sphere of this night. He continued his consideration of the ring. 

**_Rosemary._ **

**_A request to be remembered._ **

****

**_Violet._ **

**_Humility and devotion._ **

_What do we say about coincidence?_

Sherlock smiled to himself. “The universe is rarely so lazy,” he recalled aloud. How many strands of data met at this point? How far was their reach?

Neither Mary nor Molly had been put on this Earth for his benefit, their worth lay not within their contribution to his own personal growth. He was dwarfed by their power. He existed in this universe to stand as proof of its magnitude. 

Emotion coursed within him, raced within his veins and flooded his brain. Sherlock had chased this feeling from being a young man. This was a high unlike any other, yet here his grip on the world was only strengthened.

**_You know yourself, now._ **

**_Never forget that she always did._ **

The hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stood on end as he sensed someone approach from behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kissing You  
> Des'ree  
> Romeo & Juliet, 1996
> 
> Also - the 'collection' given to Sherlock by his lovely dad? That's in my current main WIP....


	2. Irrefutable proof.

St Bartholomew’s

Moments before.

Molly closed her eyes and felt the gentle heat of the many candle flames on her cold-pinched cheeks. Behind her, the choir filled the air with an equally warming, comforting sound. It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand the appeal of church; the community, the security, the sense of something greater than her. But Sherlock was quite right, she wasn’t a great believer in the traditional sense. And besides, she hardly needed another governing influence in her life. 

She smiled, ruefully, to herself. She had been reminded that night of the weight of feeling she had carried for almost a decade. The immense strength of her physical reaction to him, which had been instant to the point of being cliched, when they met. That strength had never altered or lessened as the nature of her love did, and when the pain had begun to rise and intertwine with it as time went on, she felt the power of that, too. 

Molly thought of the time when everything changed, when she was on the point of leaving him to his multi-faceted self-destruction and he had placed everything she had ever wanted at her feet. Once she would have thrown herself at him at the merest word. When he did invite her, though, she heard his fear and felt her own. She supposed maturity had something to do with that. But also, perhaps mainly, their shared experience had built a love which past the point of headiness long before they let each other in. 

_Pride can stand a thousand trials, the strong will never fall._

_But watching stars without you, my soul cried._

Tears went from threatening to falling in a heartbeat. 

_Dad, Nanna… Mary…_ Molly spoke their names in her mind. _I’m not sad,_ she told them. 

Molly had downplayed herself for years. Isolated herself. For want of the love she lost when her precious Dad and wonderful Nanna left her. It had taken her so long to realise that their love hadn’t gone with them, she was that love. She was worthy and valid because of it. She could ask for and expect it from others – her darling Mary had shown her that. She could face down any threat. 

_Any_ threat. Even one so great as the fear, the blindness, of the man she loved. 

Molly opened her eyes, brushed away tears from her cheeks with her fingertips. She offered the wick of the taper in her hand to one already burning on the stand in front of her. When it was lit, she placed it into one of the brass cups, steadied it and took her fingers away, looking at the bright little flame. 

“Dad. Nanna. Mary,” she whispered. “The girl I used to be. And still am.” 

She found him in the quadrant. He stood with his back to her, by the fountain. Molly walked between the trees. They were filled with fairy-lights. Molly loved it, every year, when they were like this. This garden was a little haven, a quiet magic hung in the air. Perhaps it had something to do with all the people who passed it, visited it, made a pilgrimage to it, laughed within it, cried within it, hugged and kissed and said hello and goodbye. Perhaps it was being at the centre of this hospital, a place which meant so much to her. To them.

As she approached him, Molly suddenly felt conflicted. He was very still. She could see that his hands were raised in front of him, his arms bent at the elbow. His collar was up. A shiver went through her, a feeling something like reverence. Whether he was lost in his mind palace or lost in his memories, he needed the space. What should she even say? 

Then she tutted at herself, rolled her eyes. Yes he was who he was, but – _for God’s sake_ – she was who she was. In that moment, they were two people who were incredibly close and who had suffered loss and earned love. Two people who wanted forever, wanted them and more. Molly smiled; there were many reasons to. 

“Making a birthday wish?” was what she settled for. He knew she thought and felt more, she knew he did, they didn’t need to say it all. They needed the substance of each other’s presence. Irrefutable proof. 

“No,” Sherlock’s voice was low and measured. Warm. He turned to her, his hand held out in front of him. “A request. Made properly, this time.” 

Molly’s eyes were locked onto his hand.

 _If I was the fool standing alone, mind full of inadequate words, heart fit to burst, his grandmother’s ring in his hand… would you be happy if it were you who came to stand at my side?_ Molly recalled his words and felt her breath, her body, her whole world pause.

“You saw a better man, from the beginning,” Sherlock began. “I wish to be that man. I will try.” 

Molly met his gaze, heard the determination in his voice, the will to stop it shaking. 

“You are, Sherlock,” she took a breath to steady herself. He waited, listened. “You will.”

He stepped towards her, then lowered himself to one knee, his eyes on hers, hand still held out to her.

“Molly Hooper. Will you do me the very great honour, of allowing me to be your husband?”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes. I will.”

Slowly, her breath catching in her throat, she wrapped her fingers around his hand and pulled him up to standing, as close as an embrace. Snow whirled around them, wrapping them in their own personal universe within the city.

Sherlock opened his hand inside hers, Moly felt his breath on her cheekbone. She looked once again at the band of white gold, seeing now that its surface was beautifully engraved. She knew this was the last moment in which she would not be wearing it. Sherlock lifted it from his palm and took her left hand, sliding the ring onto her third finger, where it sat quite contentedly, as if nothing could be simpler, nothing could be less extraordinary. As if all was as it should be. 

Molly lifted her eyes to Sherlock’s face, saw him focussing upon her hand in his. She drew him in, a hand on the back of his neck, and rested their brows together. A tremor which seemed to come from the very earth beneath them, shimmer down from the stars above, travelled along Molly’s spine. She gasped with the intensity of it. To think, visions of dresses and doves and goodness knows what brought some women to that same reaction. 

All that mattered to Molly was within her hands, now. 

Sherlock’s eyes fixed onto hers and Molly felt sure, down to her foundations, that he had felt it, that they were together. She pressed her lips to his and he responded, surrendering to her and holding her up in equal parts. Their hearts beat wildly, blood coursing, minds clear. The snow fell faster. They wrapped their arms around each other, for protection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow, fairy lights and these two holding each other tight. It's therapy. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think xx


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